


Wehe 'ana

by anisstaranise



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Hawaii, M/M, partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 02:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11773740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anisstaranise/pseuds/anisstaranise
Summary: “Put your weapon down right now,” he commands. Sympathy aside, he prides in doing his job right.“No,youput your weapon down and show me your ID-”“Youshow meyourID. Right now!” he shouts over the Commander, his vexation riding high in his tone, his hands clenched tight over his service weapon.“I’m not putting my gun down,” Commander Smythe states, his resolve set in his stance.They reach a stalemate.“Neither am I.”





	Wehe 'ana

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Seblaine Week 2017](http://seblaineaffairs.tumblr.com/tagged/sw2017): _Day 5: Free day_.
> 
> Inspired by _**Hawaii Five-0**_ (2010), some dialogue/scenes lifted from selected episodes.
> 
> Title translates to 'Prelude' (Hawaiian)

* * *

 

The front door to the quaint beach-front house creaks when he pushes it open, the yellow crime scene tape hanging loosely in the breeze. He’s worked this crime scene in Aina Haina over a dozen times but he’s never satisfied. All the leads he’s followed thus far proved fruitless but he feels he owes it to the murdered Sergeant Stanford Smythe to walk the crime scene again to see if the CSUs had missed something.

As soon as he steps into the parlour, a noise from behind the closed garage door catches his attention. He unholsters his gun on instinct and creeps in the direction of the noise, footfalls quiet as a cat lurking in the night.

When he opens the door, he finds a man standing over a workstation.

“You!” he yells, gun trained on the man. “Hands up. Don’t move.”

He tightens his grip when the man draws a gun on him.

“Who are you?” the man demands.

“Who are _you_?” he yells back, tension settling heavy on his shoulders. “I am Detective Blaine Anderson of the Honolulu PD!”

“Lieutenant Commander Sebastian Smythe- this is my father’s house.”

There’s a pang of sympathy that hits him square in the chest; this is the late Sergeant’s son.

“Put your weapon down right now,” he commands. Sympathy aside, he prides in doing his job right.

“No, _you_ put your weapon down and show me your ID-”

“ _You_ show me _your_ ID. Right now!” he shouts over the Commander, his vexation riding high in his tone, his hands clenched tight over his service weapon.

“I’m not putting my gun down,” Commander Smythe states, his resolve set in his stance.

They reach a stalemate.

“Neither am I.”

\---

“You got no choice, Detective,” Sebastian says with a smirk; that insufferable smirk he’s come to despise with a passion- and it hasn’t yet been twenty-four hours since meeting the man.

“Don’t I now?”

“The Governor gave me jurisdiction to run this task force-,” the Commander says. “- and you’ve only been with HPD for six months since returning from the Mainland where you served with Brooklyn PD.”

He grits his teeth. He doesn’t need his resume relayed to him.

“Your point is...?”

“I need fresh eyes,” Sebastian says but he hears the implication; you’re not a dirty cop, you haven’t been here long enough for those soiling the police department, those indirectly responsible for his father’s death, to put you in their pockets. “Like I said, Detective- you’ve got no choice. I’m making you my partner.”

Sebastian says it with such conviction, such finality- and it irks him to no end. And then there’s that smirk again.

He’s tempted to draw his gun on the man again- this time perhaps firing a shot or two into Sebastian’s knees.

\---

Two days since he joined (or more accurately- coerced into joining) the task force, they finally find a solid lead; an arms dealer who sold the gun to the perpetrator who had murdered Sebastian’s father.

They’re in his Camaro, parked a few houses away from the suspect’s address when Sebastian opens the car door and steps out.

“Ey, ey-,” he calls to Sebastian. “This guy deals arms, he’s a shooter. We shouldn’t be doing this without backup.”

Sebastian flashes that insufferable smirk. “You are the backup.”

He groans, exasperated but follows his partner out of the car nonetheless, his gun primed and ready.

\---

The headlights of oncoming cars flash by like shooting stars in the night sky. He’s holding tight to the grab handle above the passenger side door as Sebastian weaves through traffic like the maniac he is. To make matters worse, there’s a man- an uncooperative suspect who has been holding out on the names of his bosses and their location- strapped to the hood of the Camaro, terrified for his life and screaming for Sebastian to stop the car.

“What?” Sebastian mocks the man. “I can’t hear you through the glass.”

“There’s something pathologically wrong with you, you know that?” he snarls.

Sebastian simply smirks, his eyes fixated on the road beyond the tied-up suspect.

“I know the Governor granted the task force full immunity and means, but this, Sebastian?” he yells, feeling something more than exasperated. Two weeks into this partnership, he’s always in a state of something just a little bit more than exasperation with Sebastian.

“What’s wrong with this?” Sebastian asks innocently. It infuriates him that Sebastian genuinely thinks his actions are warranted.

“I think I should read you the Riot Act on proper police procedures,” he barks. “Perhaps have it tattooed on your forehead so every time you look at yourself in the mirror- vain as you are- you’ll actually read it!”

The smirk never leaves Sebastian’s face. If anything, it grows immensely wider, clearly enjoying the fact that he’s so riled up.

“Look, Blaine,” Sebastian says, chancing a glance at him before turning back to the road, the man on the hood still screaming until he’s red in the face. “You don’t have to like my methods- or me for that matter- but my way works.”

“Really? It works?” he challenges. They’ve been driving around for almost twenty minutes and the suspect is no closer to giving up the information the task force needs.

Then, as if on cue, the man on the hood shouts at the top of his lungs. “Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I’ll even tell you their golfing schedules! Just please! Stop!”

Sebastian slams on the brakes, the car halting to screeching stop. He almost smashes his face into the dashboard if it wasn’t for the seatbelt strapped across his chest.

There’s an insult poised at the tip of his tongue when Sebastian wriggles an eyebrow; _I told you my way works_ , it signalled.

He stares in disbelief at his partner, vexation rising to new heights- but it’s more at himself than at Sebastian. He inwardly agrees that Sebastian’s way- however unconventional- proves effective in time-sensitive cases such as this. He’s not supposed to agree with Sebastian on anything; it’s a matter of principle.

But somehow, he does. And worst of all, he’s starting to trust Sebastian.

“You’re right. I don’t like your methods- or you,” he lies.

\---

He’s stumbling up the steps of the quaint beach-front house, slamming Sebastian against the front door, his lips hungrily craving more of Sebastian- the feel of him, the taste of him.

Lieutenant Santana Lopez of the task force had closed a major human trafficking case that had been plaguing the island. Although it was a small victory considering the work they still have cut out for them in eradicating the crime altogether, their small-yet-mighty task force had decided to celebrate the present at the Rumfire in Waikiki. Small victories are no less monumental in the greater scheme of things, after all.

“I thought you didn’t like me, Detective,” Sebastian chimes in between heated kisses, slender fingers tugging at his unruly curls.

“Shut up,” he mutters, kissing Sebastian fervently, desire fuelled by the many cocktails he had downed earlier as he palms his partner through his cargo pants, his own arousal pressed hard against the man’s thigh.

Sebastian is unrelenting in the ways he’s kissing him, never parting even when his partner is trying to get the front door opened. He walks Sebastian backwards up the stairs, well versed in the layout of the Smythe home from the time he had worked the case some four months back.

Any morbid thoughts on the case of Sergeant Smythe’s murder were drowned by flickers of memories of his first meeting with Sebastian. It amuses him how their partnership had started, eventually turning into something built on trust and respect.

And it amuses him more how they fall into bed with tangled limbs, swallowing titillating moans in between kisses, mouth hot and hungry on flushed skin.

\---

The breeze sweeps through the tiny shaved ice kiosk, the sweet smell of the ocean wafting with it. He’s pressing for information from one of his informants on the island- strategic friendships he had struck early in his career before he had left for Brooklyn- while Sebastian waits at his side.

His informant- and shaved ice entrepreneur, Anakoni, cheekily smiles at them. “I run a respective business here, _brah_.”

Information always has a price, he muses.

“How much _kala_ , _bulleh_?” he asks, fluently using terms in _bird_ , the Hawaiian pidgin.

Anakoni smiles wider. His knowledge in _bird_ is usually why he takes point when dealing with _kanaka_ , an island native, such as Anakoni. It’s the sense of solidarity that makes the informants trust him, sharing any information willingly- although not without... incentive.

“The more _kala_ , the better,” Anakoni teases.

Chuckling, he pays the entrepreneur handsomely for information on the current location of an ever-moving, high-stakes underground poker club, along with two cones of shaved ice.

“ _Mahalo_ ,” he says, flashing the _shaka_ sign, his thumb and pinky finger sticking out while the rest curl into his palm.

“Yeah, thanks, man,” Sebastian chimes but his sincere gratitude is only met with a scoff.

“ _Haole_ ,” Anakoni whispers before turning away.

“What’s his problem?” his partner asks as they walk towards his Camaro.

“You,” he says, the car unlocking with a beep. “To him, you’re the problem.”

“What? Because I’m a _haole_?” Sebastian says, pronouncing the word wrong.

He laughs, amused at Sebastian’s clear irritation. _Haole_ isn’t so much a derogatory term as it is a term the locals use for outsiders. “There’s nothing you can do about being a _haole_. But it does help if you speak the common Hawaiian phrases.”

“ _Thanks_ isn’t enough to show my gratitude?” Sebastian asks, missing his point.

The engine purrs as he turns the ignition. “I’m just saying- here we say _Mahalo_ ,” he says. “ _When in Rome, do as the Romans do_ , right? You’re in Hawaii. Say _Mahalo_. Try it and maybe, _haole_ or not, you won’t come off so arrogant.”

His partner regards him carefully. “Would it mean a lot to you if I said it?”

He turns to face Sebastian, the question throwing him off-balance. He's _kama'aina_ , born and raised on the island. Hawaii has always been his home, even in the six years he had left for Brooklyn, desperate to leave behind a broken heart, a broken marriage. But he can’t resist the call of the island; that was his reason for returning. Perhaps in the quiet moments between them, in the time it took for whatever it was between them to grow, he had secretly wanted Sebastian to regard Hawaii his home, too. Perhaps Sebastian saying _mahalo_ instead of _thank you_ would be a step in the direction of it coming true.

Yes, it’ll mean a lot to him.

“Maybe,” he says instead.

Sebastian is quiet for a moment, watching the waves beyond the shaved ice kiosk.

“Okay,” Sebastian finally says. “I’ll say it when it matters most- that okay with you?”

A shadow of a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth but he makes a point to roll his eyes, feigning irritation. They drive away from the beach parking lot, the sun high in the sky- but despite the island heat beating down on them, there’s something cool, something soothing coursing through him like the gentle, crashing waves; something that feels a lot like a start of something new.

\---

The ceiling fan spins lazily above the motel’s lobby, the stout manager pointing them in the direction of a suspect’s room. They’re working a homicide case in Manoa and all the clues had led them to a motel tucked daintily in the valley.

They reached the room, the numbers 2-2-7 engraved into the wooden plaque on the wall by the door frame. Sebastian raps his knuckles on the door as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, waiting patiently.

“Jason Hekekia. Five-O. Open up,” his partner’s voice booms, bouncing off the wooden door. When their knock goes unanswered, Sebastian reaches for the handle.

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” he asks, grabbing his partner’s arm.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“First of all, you cannot- I repeat- _cannot_ open a door without consent,” he states.

“And the second?” Sebastian asks with that smirk of his, a slight trace of amusement laced in his tone.

He blushes slightly; it shouldn’t still surprise him how well Sebastian knows him- especially when he goes on one of his rants on proper police procedures- but it does, delightfully so.

“Second-” he says shyly. “- it’s probably locked.”

Sebastian tries the handle. “Yes, it’s locked. Good detective work, Blaine.”

“However-” he chimes, choosing to ignore his partner’s playful jibe. “- I _may_ have heard someone calling for help from behind this door- and that would give us probable cause to enter.”

Sebastian smiles, impressed by his willingness to fabricate a story; almost a year of being Sebastian’s partner- in every sense of the word- will do that you, he thinks.

“Yeah,” his partner agrees. “-and we would be remiss not to help.”

It’s a justification his conscience can live with- however false it may be.

Then, in a blink of an eye, Sebastian kicks the door down, the wood splintering where the lock meets the jab.

“What is the matter with you?” he yells, stunned at what had transpired.

“I’m entering with probable cause,” Sebastian says, his confidence infuriating.

“I meant we go get the key from the manager, you Neanderthal!”

The splinters crunch under Sebastian’s steps as he huffs a laugh before swiftly pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“You know my way works just as well,” Sebastian calls over his shoulder as he steps into the motel room.

 _Full immunity and means_. He pinches the bridge of his nose, noting the pending headache that will come with the case report on damages and compensation he will no doubt have to write at the end of the day.

\---

There’s a shrill, intrusive sound piercing the veil of his sleep, chasing away his euphoric dreams as the morning sun glares behind his eyelids. There’s a groan from the body next to him, the warmth of it moving away as Sebastian rolls over to reach for his phone on the nightstand, turning off his alarm.

The silence that follows is sweet; Sebastian shimmying closer to him and draping an arm over his naked waist is sweeter still.

“Good morning, Detective,” Sebastian greets, bumping their noses together.

A low hum rumbles in his throat, the pleasures of the night before still set deep in his bones.

“Good morning, Commander,” he replies behind the sheet covering his mouth; he’s still conscious about his morning breath even after a year together.

Sebastian kisses him over the sheet- one peck, then two- before he impatiently tugs it down, craving to taste his lips. He abandons his insecurities, returning Sebastian’s kisses in earnest. How can he care about anything else when Sebastian is kissing him like this?

Half an hour later they’re laying sated side by side, the sheets rumpled with sweat and affection, both content with staring at the ceiling.

“Do you want to move out?” he asks, his thoughts scattered haphazardly in his mind. “Someday, I mean.”

Sebastian is quiet, still as the windless day and he wonders if he had said something wrong. He only asks because he’s curious; this is the house his father was murdered in, after all.

“No,” comes Sebastian’s answer after a while. “My father chose to spend his retirement in Hawaii, to live his dream of living on an island. This is his home- and to some extent- it’s mine.”

A warmth ripples through him; moments where Sebastian lets himself be vulnerable are few and far between. The fact that he’s the one Sebastian chooses to bare his heart and soul to is an honour he doesn’t take for granted.

Then, Sebastian turns on his side, his elbow propping him up upon the pillow as he rest his head in his hand.

“Speaking of home-” his partner says, green eyes twinkling with something he can’t quite place.

He turns to face Sebastian, mirroring his partner’s position. “Yes?”

“Do you want to move in?”

The air in his lungs rushes out; it’s a question he never knew he needed to hear- but the answer has always been clear, he realizes.

“Yes.”

\---

Sirens wail in the distance as more police back up arrives at the scene. The Aloha Tower Marketplace has been cleared of civilians, a wide perimeter cast around the crime scene to keep press and others at bay. He stands with Sebastian and Santana, listening to Sam Evans- the newest recruit to the Five-O task force- give a rundown of the hostage situation at hand.

“A man ran into the boutique after a robbery gone wrong,” Sam explains, relaying the incident as reported by the first officers on the scene. “Bank security guard got him good, one shot to the torso. He ran out of the bank and straight there.”

They all turn to look in the direction of the boutique, shades pulled down over the store’s windows, shadows moving beyond them.

“How many total?” Sebastian asks.

Sam consults his tablet cradled in his arm. “Between employees and customers, there’s about a dozen hostages inside.”

“Any demands?” Santana chimes in.

“He’s hurt pretty bad. He’s agreed to release one hostage if we send in a medic.”

“So if he’s in such bad shape- it might be safer for the hostages if we just wait it out,” Santana says, offering a solution.

He nods in agreement. “Yes, the Ghandi approach. We sit back, let him bleed out. Situation resolved.”

“The problem with that is that we need him alive to flip him for the names of the rest of his heist crew,” Sebastian reasons.

He sighs, dejected.

“Vest!” he yells to the uniformed officers standing by. “I need a vest, please.”

Sebastian arches a brow. “You don’t even know what my plan is yet.”

“That is true, but I know you,” he says, adrenaline spiking at the mere thought of what Sebastian has planned. “And I know whatever plan you have is going to involve me in potential serious bodily harm.”

He knows he’s being dramatic- but three years of being the partner of Lieutenant Commander Sebastian Smythe of the United States Navy Reserve has thought him a lot about the man’s unpredictable (and sometimes reckless, yet effective) methods.

“You know what, Blaine-” Sebastian starts to protest but is almost immediately interrupted by Santana.

“So what’s the plan?”

And true to his predictions, Sebastian’s plan had involved sending Blaine in to pose as a paramedic to neutralize the situation.  
\---

He rubs his grease-stained hands on a rag cloth as he looks under the hood of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Sebastian is on the creeper rolled under the car. They’re undercover, posing as mechanics to infiltrate a notorious grand theft syndicate targeting vintage cars.

Their mission goes sideways. Bullets rain on the garage floor. One of it catches Sebastian’s side, tearing his flesh, his grey mechanic overalls stained dark with blood.

“Hey, hey. Baby, stay with me,” he pleads when Sebastian starts losing consciousness.

There are sirens in the distance; help is on its way, not a moment too soon.

A few hours later, the task force locates key members of the ring in an abandoned warehouse based on the intel he and Sebastian had gathered during their undercover stint.

They trade gunfire. Sam and Santana provide covering fire as he goes after the man who had shot Sebastian, his moral compass and adherence to proper police procedures forgotten, a murderous desire simmering within. Sebastian is in surgery, his fate unknown as doctors work to get the bullet out of him, his own heart bleeding with worry and fear- fear of losing the man he loves.

When he runs out of bullets, he uses his fists to fight- fuelled by anger and vendetta. The man lies incapacitated on the ground as he picks up his second piece; a revolver harnessed to his ankle. He aims at the man’s head, right between the eyes and pulls back the hammer.

His chest aches from the wild beating of his heart, his hands trembling with rage. The world won’t even miss a vermin like the man currently snivelling at his feet. But this vermin’s blood will forever be on his hands. As much as he wants it, he knows Sebastian won’t-

And that is the only reason he thumbs the revolver’s hammer back into place and cuffs the perpetrator instead.

\---

There’s a beeping of monitors wafting through the open door, the sounds of nurses and doctors bustling in the hall creating a cacophony of sounds.

“Ready?” Sebastian asks, rolling back and forth playfully in his wheelchair.

“Oh, I was born ready,” he counters, trying to mimic Sebastian’s smirk as he rolls his own wheelchair back and forth, too.

“On your mark-”

His hands curl on the handrim.

“Get set-”

His eyes focus on the doorway.

“Go!” Sebastian yells-

And they’re tearing down the hallway of the hospital ward, doing laps around the nurses’ station, down the hall to the waiting area before turning the corner.

Sebastian is drafting his wheelchair, trying to throw him off course; of course his partner is competitive even in a silly wheelchair race.

“On your right,” he calls a warning when two nurses cross his path.

Their presence slows Sebastian down, having to swerve to avoid running the nurses over.

“Karma’s a bitch,” he calls over his shoulder and swiftly makes the finally leg of the lap.

He skids to a stop just as he crosses the finish line; they had agreed the vending machine will act as the end of the line for their race.

“I let you win,” Sebastian says as he rolls up next to him seconds later.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Commander,” he teases, pleased with his win.

Sebastian moves to stand up from the wheelchair, clutching his bandaged right side as he walks towards him.

He eyes the area under Sebastian’s hand, knowing there are sutures under the dressing where the surgeons had cut his partner open to repair his damaged liver; a result of being shot at the workshop a week earlier.

Instinctively, he runs a hand over his right side, the dressing matching Sebastian’s.

Fascinating thing, livers, he thinks; visceral organ capable of regeneration.

“Commander Smythe has suffered a devastating trauma to his liver,” the lead surgeon who had oversaw Sebastian’s surgery had explained. “The bullet fragmented and has made the organ inoperable. If he doesn’t receive a new liver in the next few hours, he will die.”

Without doubt, without hesitation, he had offered his; he and Sebastian are of the same blood type, after all, making him the perfect tissue match.

“You’re stuck with me inside you now,” he had joked once he had awoken from the anaesthesia post-surgery. Sebastian had laughed, clutching his fresh stitches. He blames the wildly lame and inappropriate attempt to joke on the drugs heavily coursing through his system.

He rises to meet Sebastian half-way, his wheelchair rolling away from him.

Wordlessly, Sebastian claims his lips, a hand cupping his face. It's just like every other kiss they’ve shared over the past three years, yet somehow, it feels different- it feels a lot like the start of something new.

Sebastian pulls away, leaving him dazed- but his partner holds his gaze, green eyes boring into him. His partner strokes a thumb lovingly over his cheeks, warm breath ghosting over his lips when Sebastian whispers-

“ _Mahalo_ , Blaine.”

\---END

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Comments welcomed.


End file.
